The Ballad of Serah Hawke
by janiejanine
Summary: This was inspired by Monty Python's "Brave Sir Robin". The duel with the Arishok deserves an epic ballad, doesn't it?


Thursday was Wicked Grace night at the Hanged Man. Nothing, not even Hawke's becoming Champion of Kirkwall only a few days ago, could stop everyone from dropping whatever they were doing and gathering to drink lukewarm, piss-tasting ale and cheat each other at cards.

Living in the tavern had its perks; Varric and Isabela were always there, so they were exempt from the last-one-there-buys-the-first-round rule, and they never had to worry about passing out before they got home. However, there were also some glaring disadvantages. The bloodstains, for example. And the food. And the permanent fug that hovered in the air, making everything smell subtly of liquor and vomit. And, worst of all, anyone could wander in, and you had to let them stay until closing.

"Hey, Isabela. Remember that guy with the bad poetry?" asked Varric, idly shuffling the cards.

"Yes. He finally went away for a few hours. Why?"

Varric's eyebrow went up. "I think he got a lute."

"Oh, shit."

There was no way that could end well.

A few hours later, everyone had arrived and the-guy-with-the-bad-poetry had stayed blessedly silent. Isabela was winning, mostly because no one wanted to dive into her cleavage to retrieve the cards she had stashed there. All in all, a fine and uneventful evening, until from a corner by the bar came the ominous sound of strumming.

"Gather round," a tipsy voice cried, "and I will regale you with the Ballad of Serah Hawke!"

Hawke froze, unsure if she'd heard correctly. A song about her? From _him_? Oh, Maker, she'd never hear the end of this. She looked around the table, hoping that perhaps no one else had heard. From the looks on their faces, though, it seemed that they had. Bugger it all.

Then the voice began to sing.

_Silence fell upon the hall_

_When Hawke came through the door._

_The nobles crowded to the side_

_And the oxmen cleared the floor._

_Hawke strode into the throne room._

_Her gaze was sure and true._

_With clear voice she asked the Arishok_

_Just what he planned to do._

_"I'm looking for a relic," he said._

_"It was stolen. That's a crime."_

_"We can find it," replied Hawke._

_"Just give us a little time."_

_Then the door flew open and in she came,_

_The goddess of the plucked-wing lips;_

_No one there could look away_

_From the swaying of her hips._

_"I have your tome," the goddess said,_

_"I've retrieved it. Now you must go."_

_"Unless you're with me, lovely one,"_

_Said the Arishok firmly, "No."_

_"Never!" cried the fearless Hawke._

_"You've gotten what you want._

_Now get on your ship and go on home,_

_Or you a second time I'll taunt." _

_"Take me instead!" cried the pirate queen,_

_"Surely I'm the prize."_

_But the Arishok would not accede_

_Despite her pleading eyes._

_"You won't take her," Ser Hawke declared,_

_"Not unless you go through me."_

_The Arishok just shook his head_

_Rigid as an ancient tree._

_"I challenge you," he growled at her_

_In fierce and murderous tone,_

_And Hawke knew that to save us all_

_She'd have to fight alone._

_"I accept!" her voice rang out._

_"Let's dance, you horn-head pig."_

_She knew she'd have to rely on speed_

_Since the Arishok was so big._

_To and fro Hawke bobbed and weaved_

_And silver were her flashing blades;_

_The Arishok took many a cut_

_And blood flowed in cascades._

_"Baldrick! Kill!" the lady cried._

_Her hound came forth to lend her aid._

_He skirted round the oxman's feet_

_Biting all the heels displayed._

_But the Arishok ignored the might_

_of Ser Hawke's trusty hound._

_Despite the nipping at his ankles_

_He faced the lady down._

_What was brave Ser Hawke to do?_

_She changed her tack in but a trice._

_Turning tail, she dodged his shield,_

_And did not pay the fatal price._

_Round the pillars Hawke flew swift,_

_Leading her foe a merry chase._

_The oxman ran and the nobles laughed_

_To see his furious face._

_The Arishok was angry_

_For he could not land a hit;_

_Hawke's tactical retreats worked well_

_And she wasn't hurt a bit._

_Soon her horned foe grew weak;_

_He couldn't keep up with brave Ser Hawke._

_"This battle has to end sometime,"_

_Shouted the flagging Arishok._

_"I can do this all day!" valiant Hawke cried,_

_Making a gesture with her hand._

_The movement was one that even an oxman_

_Couldn't fail to understand._

_With a mighty roar the Arishok_

_Made one last desperate thrust._

_Hawke dove aside, and his great sword_

_Near made the floor combust._

_Ser Hawke knew the end was near,_

_She rolled this way and that,_

_Ducking under his powerful swings_

_So she didn't get squashed flat._

_Hawke's daggers punched into his side._

_The blades grew slick with blood._

_To his knees the Arishok fell._

_The trickle became a flood._

_He lay upon the throne room's steps,_

_Cursing with his final breath._

_With one last slice of her sharp blade,_

_Hawke sent him to his death._

_The city was saved, and high and low_

_The crowds cheered all around._

_The Knight-Commander then proclaimed_

_A new Champion had been crowned!_

As the last notes of the ballad faded, the table sat silent. Everyone looked at each other, incredulous, except for Hawke, who was very carefully not looking at anyone.

Aveline was the first to speak. "Tactical retreats?"

Hawke nodded, still not meeting her eye. "That's what I did. Yep."

"As I recall, you were running away like your ass was on fire," said Varric. He pulled a book from his pocket and flipped through the pages. "Here it is. The word I used at the time was 'fleeing'."

"I was definitely not _fleeing_."

"He was chasing you in circles. I'm pretty sure there weren't any tactics involved beyond _don't__get__skewered_," said Anders, openly smirking.

"It was _strategic!_ Anyway, I'm not the only one who got a mention, O Goddess of the Plucked-Wing Lips," Hawke retorted, turning to Isabela.

"I can't help it! He always does that. I've tried everything except actually punching him, and that was only because he bought me a drink while I was winding up," protested Isabela.

Hawke patted her knee and allowed her hand to drift upward a bit. "I don't mind. Just as long as he knows that you're _my_ goddess."

Isabela gave her a wicked grin. "You know it, sweet thing."


End file.
